Breakdown
by Basser
Summary: THoB's 'breakdown' scene from Sherlock's point of view. Character motivation study.


_**A/N: **__Another suggestion, but this is one I'd also been planning to do for awhile anyway. John in this scene though... oh my god, what a fucking bastard. Maybe there's a rational explanation for his behaviour, I don't know, but I seriously just want to hurt him every time I watch this._

* * *

_I Didn't. See. Anything._

Shivering with adrenaline, veins thrumming with the lingering pulse of terror and confusion and _fear_. Normally he'd be fumbling for a cigarette right now; at the very least adding another nicotine patch _(or four) _but good god he _can't _because there's _nothing_. John's taken away all his usual drugs. What does that leave...? Come on _there has to be another way _think you idiot there must be _something...!_

Buildings ahead, pub. _Alcohol... _only option.

Sherlock _hates_ the stuff but it's all too necessary - he's just honestly not capable of calming down on his own right now. No, no no no _no _his mind is racing too fast out of control _can't stop it!_ The sick, _sick_ fear of his own impending madness sucks down to the pit of his stomach, coiling into a tight knot with dread and anxiety. It's a roiling ball of _horror_ and he's really never been much good at repressing that particular sensation. Fear in general just isn't something he handles well. Drugs, then, always the drugs. Only way to keep himself sane enough to cope.

Teetering on the verge of a full-blown panic attack now; hasn't had one in _years_. Nicotine patches are stronger than cigarettes, he's found, tend to keep him calmer. Though even before the switch he'd already mostly learned how to stop himself panicking, trained his mind to kill off the anxiety before it could build into something destructive... or he _thought_ he had, anyway. Maybe he'd just been fooling himself into thinking he had some vestige of control over the process, was really the drugs the whole time...

He takes another sip of whiskey and grimaces at the taste, sets it down on the table beside him. How he'd even managed to make it to the pub and order a drink without breaking down into a hyperventilating wreck of a neurotic mess he honestly has no idea. Managed it somehow, though, and the fireplace is warm and the whiskey is _disgusting_ but it's nonetheless doing its job of scattering his thoughts in swirling vortices of light-headedness. He places his hands in front of his face fingertip-to-fingertip in his usual meditative posture and tries to collect himself.

Within minutes though John walks in, and _good god why. _Not _now_, John, _please_ not now... but there's really no choice, is there? Sherlock's got his role to play in this whole partnership thing and of course John's sat down and started speaking, seeking _social interaction_. Having a conversation is absolutely the _last_ thing Sherlock wants to do right now but ugh John's his _friend_ so he has to at least try. Alright, calm down, _focus_, take deep breaths. He's fine. Fine fine _fine_ by _fucking god_ he's _perfectly fine._

It's a struggle to avoid breaking down into a panic. Doesn't quite trust himself to speak - no, not quite yet - so he just lets John continue to ramble on about inconsequential things. Glares a bit, though, because as he glances over the other man's _completely at ease_, which is just... _god,_ _really_, John? Is it not _painfully obvious_ that he's not okay right now? There's no way he doesn't... really, this _clearly_ isn't normal behaviour... _why hasn't he mentioned it...?_

But then abruptly, belatedly, he figures it out.

John simply doesn't care.

Well... that's... that's fair. Why _should_ he, really, after all? Sherlock's not _meant _to have emotional reactions to things. _Sociopath_, remember? Probably thinks it's some sort of manipulative gambit. And... and it _is._ Yes, he's just acting this way to... see how John will respond. Right. By choice. Because if it's a choice then he can _stop._

John goes on and mentions the _dog_, though, and without warning Sherlock finds himself incapable of continuing the train of self-deceptive lies he'd been trying to trick his brain into believing. Suddenly all he can see is that bloody _hound_- no, that _monster! _Enormous slavering jaws those _teeth_ and _glowing red eyes_ - so utterly, completely unnatural and_ obviously a hallucination_ but god it had seemed so _real _and the only thought trapped in his mind since seeing it has been a looping shrieking mantra of _I've gone mad I've gone mad I've gone mad..._

It's finally happened, he's snapped, it's all downhill from here and _oh god he has no idea what's going to happen to him now._

What do they even _do_ with psychotic, schizophrenic sociopaths? Commit them? Surely they must - they _will, _because he holds no illusion that anyone is going to volunteer to... to _look after_ him, or whatever sort of care is necessary for mad people. No, he'll be thrown into an institution probably. Somewhere like that wretched rehab clinic except so much _worse_ because it'll be full of the mentally ill and he'll have absolutely _no chance _of escape no not if Mycroft's involved. Stuck trapped in some hellish facility with nothing and no one _forever._

Denial should be his only option right now but damn it all it's _not working. _And whether by fault of the alcohol or something else Sherlock finds himself admitting in a rush what he'd seen: _Henry was right, I saw it too..._ But John doesn't seem to believe him. _Let's be rational...? _What the hell do you think I've been trying to _do_ for the last thirty minutes!? Being rational is _not fucking working_, John! I saw a bloody _monster! _How does one rationalise _insanity!?_

Doesn't yell, though, even if he wants to... just mutters something about _improbable and impossible_, because maybe... _maybe it was real_..._?_ But then _no it fucking wasn't_. He _knows _it wasn't - John's right, after all. If someone had figured out how to make a genetically mutated super-dog they would have heard about it. No no_ no_, it was a _hallucination_ he should just accept that but he _can't_, god he just can't. Refuses to reconcile the thought of his brain and his senses failing him so catastrophically. In desperation he picks up the whiskey again.

His hand is shaking.

He stares, but doesn't get angry, no attempt to mask it. No... instead he just laughs - short and bitter because _isn't that just like his body_, to go and betray him so obviously. Muscles utterly outside his control. Within the confines of his mind he's _so good_ at divorcing himself from all this nonsense - an expert at keeping himself distant, detached, collected; successfully tamped down the urge to scream and cry and run far _far_ away, hadn't he? Went and ordered a drink, sat in an armchair by the fireplace, behaved like a _civilised adult._ And yet despite everything his hand still trembles... undeniable proof that he _isn't fine_. Not really. No matter what he forces himself to believe he's still just... scared. Frightened. _Pathetic._

Attempting to explain all this to John isn't really the _best_ option, he knows that. Won't help to stop the flood of shooting pulsing terror if he goes and _acknowledges _it, after all... but... god, but for some reason he just wants someone to _know._ For once it would be nice to not have to struggle alone, withdrawing into his mental fortress to wage solitary battle against the crushing tidal wave like usual. And isn't John always going on about how it's better for patients to _talk?_

Well, Sherlock's not exactly a _patient,_ but he is a friend... and since everything else has failed so far maybe he'll give it a bloody try.

It doesn't work, though. John just gets annoyed.

Perhaps Sherlock's failed to adequately explain the problem? Or... no, the man simply doesn't care. That's probably more likely. _No one _really cares. Sherlock learned that lesson a long, _long_ time ago; why he still persists with the delusion that perhaps he'd been mistaken he has no idea. What makes him think a _friend_ will have any sympathy for him, after all, when family never did? Not even his _brother _really... but _god_, no. No, alright, talking about it had been a _stupid _idea. Should have just kept his mouth shut. _Idiot._

Frustration with his own moronic behaviour begins to blossom through the swirling eddies of early intoxication and fires of self-loathing chasing round his head, so that by the time John's moved on to trying to calm him down with condescending platitudes he is _entirely_ not in the mood. _You've just got yourself a bit worked up..._

_Worked up...?_ Of all the fucking...! _Worked up!?_

If John thinks _this _is worked up he hasn't seen the bloody _half _of it! Sherlock's _been_ 'worked up' before, and this _definitely_ isn't it. No, this is him winning a_ valiant battle _to keep a lid on his own instinctual, idiotic panic response! But oh, the forest was_ was dark and scary, _was it...? How _understandable_, frightened of the _fucking dark!_

John has absolutely _no idea_ what it takes to scare him. Stupid bastard thinks he's been through _so bloody much_, Afghanistan and _war _and _getting shot. _There's worse things than simply being injured, John. Much _much _worse.

Such stark difference between being invalidated in the line of duty and... and... _argh._ No, the simple fact is that people _respect_ John's suffering, because he was damaged while fulfilling a noble role. It's an _honour_ for him to share his story, the PTSD is acceptable, even _expected._ But no one would have an ounce of sympathy for any of Sherlock's... if he were to _tell them _what he's... no, no. He never will. He _can't._

Some stupid teenaged junkie huddled alone in the freezing rain isn't worth feeling sorry for. Even if he can't remember how he ever fell so far or when it feels like the entire world's abandoned him to die. It was _his choice, _after all _- _he made the decision to turn to drugs... and maybe no one ever _told_ him what addiction was really like or how it would consume him eating away until there was nothing left but somehow he should have known. Should have been _smarter._

But before all that though, the little boy in trouble with Father again and it was _his fault, his fault, his fault - _he could never behave properly, never seemed capable of learning from his mistakes. So _of course_ no one cared, because obviously he'd deserved it. Maybe he'd deserved _all_ of it. Maybe he deserves _this._

But no. _No._ Self-pity isn't fucking helpful. _Stop it you bloody idiot!_ Head up, regain shredded confidence, _keep it together. _There is absolutely _nothing wrong with him. _He's fine, he can push through this, he's _fine._

John keeps staring at him with that look of _concern_ and Sherlock can't bloody stand it anymore. Looking like he doesn't _believe_ him which is stupid because it's the _truth_ isn't it there's nothing wrong _nothing wrong_ no, no no no _THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME._

Oops... _damn it, _shouted that. Glances around at the pub, and perhaps he should be feeling a _little_ more sheepish about the random emotional outburst but_ fuck it all_, he's well on his way to tipsy now and it really doesn't matter in the slightest, does it? Struck with an idea as he looks behind him, though... he's _fine_, and he can bloody well... _want me to prove it, yes?_ John's brilliant little _stupid fucking plan_ of looking for a dog. Alright then, watch _this. _Hallucinations or not he's still a _genius_, he's still _better_ than them, still _worth_ something.

Without meaning to his deduction drops into a bit of a manic ramble; but _who cares _because it _helps_. He's finally focused on something besides the maelstrom in his brain; doesn't even pause to let John interject with his usual questions no just supplies them himself _how the hell can you know that, Sherlock? _and perhaps he's being just a _tad_ mocking but _for god's sake does John honestly not see?_ Everything laid out so _perfectly_ and it's only a terrier not _exactly_ what they're looking for drops into sarcasm he's not even sure why he's still _talking_ but John's just staring at him with that flat, unimpressed look and fucking hell why does he have to keep looking like that _just leave me alone!_

Something about friends and _I don't have friends. _He never has, _never will_ because John's obviously not one or he'd _care._ An irrational presumption hiding deep within Sherlock's brain seems to be expecting John to argue, to try and prove that he isn't going anywhere, maybe even _apologise_ or hell perhaps just continue to sit there and stare. But he doesn't do any of that.

No... he gets up and leaves.

Sherlock stares after his flatmate, wanting to say something... but he has no idea what. Half a second longer and the opportunity's gone, John disappears out the back door of the pub. Sherlock slowly moves his gaze back to the fire.

Alone now, John's left him. Isn't that what he'd wanted...?

A single, choked-off sob manages to escape his chest.

_God, no._


End file.
